That alleyway's been there the whole time, right? The Nexus messes you about sometimes but it feels like Danny's walked past it before. It's hardly inviting, though, even for an alley- a damp and gloomy crack between battered walls, littered with bits of rubbish no-one could be bothered to haul out to the boundary torches. You wouldn't look at it twice. You wouldn't want to.
Unless. Unless you happened to be looking for somewhere a little different. Somewhere beneath the notice and under the noses of the average Nexus resident. Unless you happen to have sharp eyes in your head and a bit of luck in your pocket, as Danny does. That shabby little alley drags on the corner of his vision, luring him close enough to notice the lightly trampled snow beneath those bits of rubbish, how very close the shadows draw when he steps inside.
There's a door back there, when he looks. Easy to miss, with the way the walls angle. Push it open - it's not locked - and there's just enough light from the occasional wall-mounted torch to see the narrow stone stairs leading him down. He'll hear the voices long before reaching the enormous medieval cellar at the bottom. On the vaulted ceiling, the shadows play among the light of lamps burning oil and electricity and magic; among the pillars all manner of shady characters are swaggering, slinking, doing business. They exchange goods, whispers- most of all, hard cash. Many of them choose to keep a polite distance from each other, but the visiting sorcerer would be well-advised to watch his step.
Not least because there's a small trench around the edge of the room, and if he steps into it crossing the threshold he'll learn it's flowing with cold water.
Danny Gladstone - The Underhanded Underground
Unless. Unless you happened to be looking for somewhere a little different. Somewhere beneath the notice and under the noses of the average Nexus resident. Unless you happen to have sharp eyes in your head and a bit of luck in your pocket, as Danny does. That shabby little alley drags on the corner of his vision, luring him close enough to notice the lightly trampled snow beneath those bits of rubbish, how very close the shadows draw when he steps inside.
There's a door back there, when he looks. Easy to miss, with the way the walls angle. Push it open - it's not locked - and there's just enough light from the occasional wall-mounted torch to see the narrow stone stairs leading him down. He'll hear the voices long before reaching the enormous medieval cellar at the bottom. On the vaulted ceiling, the shadows play among the light of lamps burning oil and electricity and magic; among the pillars all manner of shady characters are swaggering, slinking, doing business. They exchange goods, whispers- most of all, hard cash. Many of them choose to keep a polite distance from each other, but the visiting sorcerer would be well-advised to watch his step.
Not least because there's a small trench around the edge of the room, and if he steps into it crossing the threshold he'll learn it's flowing with cold water.